


No Regrets

by xtexan86



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen, Post Sweet Revenge, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:53:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtexan86/pseuds/xtexan86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While at a weekend getaway, Starsky divulges a bit of his past to Hutch. Post SR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets

**No Regrets**

It’s funny how you can spend 75 percent of your time with someone and still not know everything about him. While I’d like to admit there’s very little about Starsky that I don’t know, every so often he surprises me.

Take the other day, for instance. We’d just arrived at a little beach bungalow about an hour’s drive up the coast. I think Huggy said he knew the uncle of the man’s sister who owned it. Or was it the sister of the man’s uncle? I guess that doesn’t matter. With Huggy, sometimes the less you know, the better.

Anyway, Starsky and I were due for a break, and five days at a secluded beach cove was just what we needed. Well, maybe it was what I needed. For the past three months, all Starsky’s been doing is resting. Might have something to do with taking four bullets in the chest. I wouldn’t know what that’s like. I’ve only taken one, and that son of a bitch hurt like hell.

Everyone from Starsky’s doctor to the hospital janitor said it was a miracle he survived. Perhaps it was. I tend to think maybe God just wasn’t ready for him yet. But whatever, or whoever, stopped my best friend from dying and taking the best part of me with him, I’m very grateful.

 _Grateful._ I try to say that every chance I get. Especially during the times Starsky struggles just to walk up a single flight of stairs. Or when he gets coughing fits I swear are bad enough to dislodge his one good lung. I hate the look that appears on his face; that scared, little kid look. And there’s nothing I can do to make it better. Nothing. Except be there. Hold his hand, rub his back. Tell him things will get better. Yeah, I’m a real Florence Nightingale.

It’s a wonder Starsky isn’t as sick of me as he is swallowing that medicine cabinet of prescriptions he takes. Luckily, I’ve never had to hound him much about remembering to take them. Especially the pain pills. Which only means one thing, and I don’t like to dwell on what that thing is. Starsky likes to think he can hide his feelings from me, but he can’t. I can read that poker face from a mile away—every tiny twitch of pain, every little wounded tinge in his eyes. I never let him know, though. A man needs his pride, and sometimes, that’s all I think Starsky still owns that hasn’t been ripped away.

Well, like I was saying; we’d gone up to this little cottage for a chance to take a breather and just get away from the day to day grind. Starsky’s physical therapist was against the idea, but we’d said ‘screw it.’ You can only go through so much, and my partner’s cup was overflowing.

When we arrived, I pulled the car off the road and parked so we could see the beach and surrounding area. It was beautiful. The sunlight was sparkling off the deep blue water, making the grasses glisten as well. There were only about four other little homes nearby, all lined up on a low hill and separated by enough space so you could see the person next door but certainly couldn’t hear them. On one side, the beach was completely blocked by a high sand cliff overgrown with scrub brush and deer grass. Looking the other way, the shoreline extended down a few hundred yards and stopped where several gigantic rocks tapering into the ocean closed off that end. The waves weren’t very high, maybe a foot or two, and the sand looked soft and inviting.

Overhead, two seagulls drifted by, checking us out. Interrupted from viewing the scenery, I peered at Starsky. His sunglasses made his expression hard to see, but his smile spoke volumes.

“Nice, isn’t it?” I managed, not really needing to say what was patently obvious.

The grin enlarged. “Yeah. Huggy really came through.”

I reached over and patted Starsky on the thigh. “You think you can make it to the front door alright? I’ll grab our bags.”

The corner of his mouth tugged down a little, but nothing else indicated that he’d have trouble. I got out and walked around to the trunk. The breeze was moderate, not too chilly. Starsky was wearing one of his light sweaters, I felt fine dressed in a t-shirt. After unlocking the trunk, I gathered both of our bags, plus a sack of groceries that’d been packed before leaving home. Huggy had said there was a store nearby, so I figured after my partner got settled, I’d go grab some fresh food and a couple of steaks. Maybe even a cold six-pack of beer. Starsky might like that.

When I heard the passenger door open, I stayed hunched down behind the trunk lid, pretending to be busy. Starsky doesn’t care for audiences anytime he has to perform a physical challenge, and getting out of a car is still a challenge. I breathed a sigh of relief a few moments later when the LTD lifted and I heard his door slam shut. Closing the trunk, I stepped around to the passenger side. Starsky had a hand on the roof, steadying himself, but he looked ready to walk down the short lane to the front porch.

“Did you bring the Hostess Cupcakes?” he asked, taking a few wobbly first steps.

“Yes,” I answered heavily. “And the Fritos, and the Hersey’s chocolate, _and_ the jelly beans.”

“Root beer, too?”

“Starsky, we brought enough sugar, trust me. And even if I believe your claim that it’s the only thing your stomach can handle, your body could stand something more nutritious.”

“Okay,” he said, cranking his head to the side. “I’ll skip the jelly beans for some ice cream instead.”

I could tell by his quirky smile he was yanking my chain, but I let it slide. When Starsky joked, it meant he was feeling better, and to be honest, I was missing those stupid jokes. I slowed my pace, making sure my steps matched his, and tried not to focus too much on his stiff movements. No doubt, part of his unsteadiness came from sitting in the car too long. The other, well, the other might be what he’s stuck with. I guess you can't have metal tear through you without some permanent reminder. I just wish his hadn’t been so severe. Pushing that depressing thought away, I moved ahead of him and set the bags down so I could unlock the front door.

Inside, the air was a little stuffy, but the place was exactly like Huggy had described. The living room was bright and had a large sliding glass door which faced out to the ocean. A large cushioned couch sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by two recliners and a coffee table. The oak wood floor looked worn in spots but a multi-colored area rug covered most of its surface. A few pictures adorned the walls, mostly of beach scenes, and a small bookcase lined one of the walls. While Starsky checked out the bedrooms, I gathered up the bags and brought them inside.

After setting the luggage by the couch, I took the grocery bag into the kitchen. The room was nicely sized, almost as big as mine at Venice Place. The beige-colored tile floor went well with the light-colored cabinets, and a small wooden antique table, with four chairs, sat off to the side in its own nook.

I set the bag on the kitchen counter and began taking everything out. A few moments later, I noticed Starsky was standing by the sliding glass door, fiddling with the lock.

“Need any help?” I asked.

A long silence gave me my answer. I went into the living room to join him and followed his sad gaze down to the bottom of the door sill. The home owner had placed a broom stick in the groove, making it impossible to open the door. Starsky knew he couldn’t simply bend down and remove the stick. The hurt and disappointment that plainly showed on his face mirrored my own feelings.

“It’s okay,” I said, suddenly aware of how often I’d been saying that to him.

After getting the door open, I decided to follow him outside. He slowly moved over to the porch rail, his eyes glued on the horizon. Two lounge chairs tipped against the wall caught my attention. I moved both into the shade and positioned each so they’d be facing the ocean.

“Have a seat, partner.” I invitingly patted his chair and sat down in the other. Thankfully, he did as I asked, but a long sigh escaped when he settled into the seat.

For a few minutes, we just sat and stared out at the peaceful scenery. I wasn’t sure what to make of Starsky’s silence. Even without the sunglasses, it was hard to read the expression on his face. But when I saw one tear, followed by another, I couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“Hey,” I said, leaning forward. “What’s wrong?”

A dozen reasons flashed through my mind. Was he hurting? Had the drive been too long? Did he want to turn around and go home? If that was the case, I wouldn’t have minded. Any place, just as long as he was there, was fine with me.

Starsky looked down at his lap. He wiped one of his cheeks, then lifted his head back up. “I was just thinking about my pop,” he said, keeping his words tight and controlled.

“Your dad?”

His answer threw me. Many years ago, after a long night of drinking, Starsky had told me about how he lost his father. There hadn’t been a lot of information, Starsky was only twelve at the time. The things he mentioned seemed to be bits and pieces of past memories. But from what was said, I got the impression that Michael Starsky was a good man who died tragically and way too young. Even a few years ago, while sitting in the back of an eighteen-wheeler listening to Joe Durniak, I didn’t hear much more than what I’d already known. Evidently, that part of Starsky’s past was still not meant for full disclosure, even to me. But was all that about to change?

“Have you ever wondered why you only remember the good things about someone who’s been gone a long time?” Starsky asked.

I settled back in my chair to think about Starsky’s question. Unlike him, both of my parents were still alive but my paternal grandfather had died about twenty years ago. He used to live very close to us, and several times, especially during the summer, we’d drive over and spend a weekend. Grandpa Charles used to spoil me, not with toys and candy, but with attention and love. We’d always go fishing, down to a small lake he had on his farm. He’d tell me about being a soldier in France during WWI, and how he met his wife while staying in a shopkeeper’s house. To me, Grandpa Charles was the best, but his son had a different opinion of the man. Growing up, Father hated seeing him travel to town where he’d gamble their meager earnings away playing craps or buying moonshine.

“Yeah, I think that’s true,” I said, getting back to Starsky’s question. “That’s probably what prompted someone to write ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’”

I looked back at Starsky. The tears had stopped for now, but the disheartened aftermath was still visible.

“After Pop got killed, I went to bed every night and prayed that he’d come and tell me he was okay.”

“Did he?” I asked, even though I could sense what the answer would be.

Starsky shook his head. “Nope. After a month or so, I quit askin’. Never asked for anything again…well, ‘cept maybe once or twice.”

His last words intrigued me. “What times were those?”

Starsky dipped his head and then locked eyes with me. “When Terri…” He fell silent for a moment. “And when you got shot. Guess getting one out of two ain’t bad.”

Surprised at his revelation, I wanted to know more. “You’ve never seemed very religious, is that part of the reason why?”

I grew up in a Methodist household. Every Sunday, except those times we’d go to Grandpa Charles’, Mom would dress up in one of her best outfits, and make sure Father and I wore suits. We’d go to church, sit for what seemed like hours, and listen to a heated sermon about how the wicked would be punished and the faithful saved from eternal damnation. While I never accepted everything spoken from that pulpit, I eventually concluded that being a good person and doing kind things was never a bad philosophy to live by. As far as Starsky was concerned, I only knew that he’d been raised by a Jewish mother and a Protestant father.

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess in the beginning, I did what a lot of people do; blamed God for Pop getting killed. But lots of bad things happen all of the time, whether you’re good or not.” He lightly shook his head. “After awhile, I quit trying to figure it out. I hoped he was in a better place, and left it at that.”

“But that wasn’t enough, was it?”

Starsky drew his arms closer to his body and gingerly folded them on his chest. I caught myself wondering if his scars and incisions were still tender. God knows, he had plenty.

“I couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel him around me anymore,” Starsky said, staring back out at the ocean. “You’d think when someone dies, and you believe in an afterlife, that they’d be, you know…around?”

I felt myself smiling in response to his statement, but I’ve never believed in ghosts or spirits. Sure, I’ve heard people mention about how they were visited by their late, great aunt or seen a strange cloud of mist floating in the air. If you truly believe in things like that, it’s easy to convince yourself they’re real.

“Sometimes, I’d even beg,” Starsky went on. “I always thought me and him had a special connection. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t hear me trying to talk to him, wanting to just feel… _anything_.”

“Starsky, your dad loved you. You grew up to be the person you are because of him. That’s a legacy any father would want to leave behind.”

I heard a light snort. “Even one that’s a nut case?”

Leaning forward, I said, “Well, Starsky, that’s never kept _me_ from loving you.”

He smirked. “That’s not what I’m talkin’ about.” Starsky squinted as he watched another gull fly by. “You know those people who claim they can read palms?”

“You mean, like Madam Yram?”

“No, I mean kinda like her. The ones that claim they can see things the rest of us can’t."

“Oh, like Joe Collandra.”

“Yeah, people like him. Psychics. I went to see one a couple of years ago.”

“You did? You never told me that.”

He nodded his head. “It was the twentieth anniversary of Pop’s death. I was driving home and noticed one of those palm reader’s signs in a window. So I stopped and went in.”

“Was there a fringed hanging light shade and a crystal ball on the table?”

“No,” he said sarcastically as he sneered at me. “Actually, it looked like an average living room, just with a round table and two chairs in one corner.”

“So, what happened?”

One shoulder shrugged. “Not much, really. She had me ask her some questions, told me a couple of interesting things, but nothin’ specific.”

I shook my head. Too bad I hadn’t been there, I could’ve saved Starsky his money. “What’d she charge you?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t been ripped off.

“Forty bucks.”

“Whew,” I whistled, surprised he’d been taken for that much. “And that’s what you gave her?”

Starsky’s attention shifted away from the gulls flying overhead. “Yeah, it was worth the education.”

“Which was?” This I had to hear. Starsky rarely admits to being conned.

Those deep blue eyes turned back to me. “That you don’t need a psychic to tell you what’s in your heart.”

I paused, feeling the smirky smile on my own face gradually disappear. I could only hope whatever Starsky found was what he wanted to know.

“Back then,” he continued, “I had a hard time believing Pop was never coming home again. Mom wasn’t doing much better. If someone would’ve asked me, I’d have said a big part of her had died with him. She’d sit in Pop’s favorite chair for hours.” Starsky paused and took in a shuddering breath. “That’s probably why she ended up sending me here.”

“I can’t say that I’m not glad she did.”

That brought a sincere smile back on his face.

“Can’t say I’m not glad she did either.”

Starsky fell silent again, but I didn’t want to do anything to prompt him to speak. Somehow I knew he wasn’t finished yet.

“You know, I’m the same age as Pop was when he died,” Starsky said, his voice sounding even more forlorn. “It hurts knowing how young he really was.”

Finding myself speechless, I struggled to find something prophetic to say. Emotions flooded my brain; most of them reminders of the last time Starsky’s heart had been broken. It hurts to see him like that. While I might be a pretty good friend, someone he can always count on, I’m lousy when it comes to offering psychological comfort.

“Starsk, there’s no doubt in my mind your father was always very proud of you.”

I showed my sincerest smile, but there was no way Starsky was going to believe that corny statement…even if I did mean it with all my heart.

“Have I ever told you,” he grumbled, “you suck at cheering someone up?”

“Yeah,” I said, releasing a chuckle, “Probably at least once or twice.”

Our eyes locked together for a moment and then Starsky looked back at the horizon.

“Hey,” I murmured.

Starsky cocked his head a little.

“Losing your dad, at any time, is tough. I’m sorry he died when he did, but honestly, I don’t see how we’d be here right now without that happening. You’re my best friend, Starsk, my _best_ friend. And I thank God for you every day, partner.”

He stared at me, with a look that was a cross between utter disbelief and pure admiration.

“Guess I’ll have to take back that part about being terrible,” he admitted.

“You’re damn right you will.”

“So that leaves us where? Me selling pencils on the corner and you doing what?”

“What do you mean, ‘me doing what?’ I’ve told you hundreds of times; I’m the brains of this outfit. You, on the other hand, could use a little help. Maybe one of those circus monkeys to perform with—”

 _“Hutch!”_

I love seeing that sparkle of fire in my partner’s eyes. And if I haven’t said it today, yet, _Thank you God, for keeping him here…and with me._

The End


End file.
